


Throw Yourself at the Ground

by chess_ka



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-26 16:16:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chess_ka/pseuds/chess_ka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Duxford went well, then?"</p><p>The dates of Captain Martin Crieff and Her Serene Highness, Princess Theresa of Liechtenstein who are, against all the odds, a rather good match.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Duxford

**Author's Note:**

> “The Guide says there is an art to flying", said Ford, "or rather a knack. The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.” (Douglas Adams, "Life, the Universe, and Everything")

“So,” says Theresa as they stroll around the Duxford Air Museum, “which of these would you prefer to fly? And know that if you say the Spitfire I shall laugh at your lack of originality.”

It takes Martin a moment to formulate his thoughts because he is _strolling_ around the _air museum_ with _a princess_. A princess who is _asking him about planes_ as she sips at her cheap takeaway coffee. It is only when she gives him an enquiring glance over the lid of her cup, eyebrow raised, that he realises he's been staring at her with his mouth hanging open. He suspects she knows exactly what he's thinking. It's not particularly reassuring.

“There's nothing wrong with Spitfires!” he exclaims. “They were really – you know – important, during the War.”

“Hm.” Theresa sounds unimpressed. “So you're picking a Spitfire? You will have to do better than that to convince me, Captain Crieff.” 

She keeps calling him “Captain Crieff”, and his stomach flips every time. He knows he's blushing. It's an unexpected side effect of her remarkably fond teasing. “A-actually, I'd pick the Firefly Mk 1. It's a beautiful old plane.”

“I suppose so. Though I prefer the longer fuselage of the Mk. II.” 

“That will have compromised the handling,” Martin argues, and Theresa shakes her head. They bicker good-naturedly and Martin can't believe how _easy_ this is.

“What do you think then?” he asks. “Which plane would you fly?”

Theresa taps her lower lip in thought. It is a highly endearing gesture that Martin is realising is a habit. “The Avro Vulcan,” she says finally. 

“A bomber?”

“Yes. Why shouldn't I?”

“The idea of you in a bomber is frightening,” he tells her honestly, and she laughs. Her nose crinkles when she laughs, and she pushes her curly hair back behind her ear. Martin can't help but wonder what it would feel like between his fingers.

They continue to walk around the museum, passing comments about the planes and bickering over wing shape, fuselage length and engine placement. She is fierce in her opinions, and clearly knows what she is talking about. Martin watches her study a Harrier, a small line between her eyes, and wonders how _this woman_ could be interested in him. She's small and slight, her chin tilting upwards with a certain pride. Her dark curly hair is pulled into a messy bun, and she has freckles across her nose. She exudes the effortless confidence that Martin _wishes_ he had. Even dressed in a turtle-neck jumper and jeans he can't imagine that anyone would be surprised that she is a princess.

They have lunch at a pleasant nearby café. Theresa orders Earl Grey and a croque monsieur - “I am rather international, I think” - and tells him about her family and growing up with seven younger siblings.

“I have to say,” she says thoughtfully, “I imagined that I would resent Maxi for being in line before me – especially after my mother had spent most of my life preparing me to be Queen – but it was rather a relief. I have to look after Maxi, of course, but all that expectation just- _poof_!” She gives a slight wave of her hands, “gone! There are still things I'm expected to do of course, but it's not as much. I can have some of my own interests now, when Maxi is at school.”

Martin considers this as he chews his sandwich. “Flying?” he asks once he's swallowed.

Theresa gives him a small smile. “Not yet. I would like to, of course, but my mother still insists it is not 'suitable'. I tell her that I am thirty-two years old, that I would like to do something of my choosing, but she has not yet changed her mind.” For the first time she looks sincerely downcast. Martin almost reaches for her hand but stops himself in time, leaving his hand on the table instead.

“My family didn't want me to fly either. Well, no, at first they were supportive, but when it – when it took me a long time they just wanted me to give up. I had to do it on my own.”

“Oh?” Theresa looks interested by this, and sympathetic. “That is – so you are lucky, but because of your hard work. That is the best kind of luck, I feel.”

He blinks at her, then smiles cautiously. “I suppose so,” he says slowly. She has a refreshingly different way of putting things. “Yes. Well, I was thinking... I mean, I'm allowed to -to take people up in the air, and there's an old chap who keeps his Cessna at the airfield. He said he'd lend her to me if I wanted so – would you – would you like to go up?”

Theresa beams. Her nose crinkles and there are lines around her eyes. “I would like that very much, Martin,” she says, pushing her hair behind her ear. 

This time, Martin doesn't stop himself from taking her hand, and matching her smile with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all plane facts were from the Mighty Google. If anyone actually knows about planes, please make suggestions to me!


	2. The Taj Mahal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I know very little about the Taj Mahal, but I tried to find out some details.
> 
> 2) Any existing people mentioned in this chapter are complete strangers to me, and this is not meant to be a remotely realistic presentation of them. I don't know any member of European royalty, and I mean no harm, etc.

When Theresa had first mentioned the party, Martin had actually laughed.

“A party,” he had repeated. “At the Taj Mahal.”

“Yes. Karl does like to be extravagant. This is a little excessive even for him, but...”

“ _Extravagant_? It's the _Taj Mahal_.”

“I know what it is, Martin,” she had said, amused. “It is written on the invitation. With a rather beautiful picture of it. Now, since you are going to be in Delhi, will you accompany me?”

“Theresa, I – it's a good three hours away-”

“That isn't a problem. I will send a car for you.”

Martin was glad that they were on the phone, so she couldn't see his blush. “Theresa,” he tried again, “are you sure you want _me_ there? I can't even go for a drink in a _pub_ I'm so awkward. And this will be... very different. I'll only embarrass you.”

Theresa tutted impatiently. “Of course you will not. You will be with me, and so you will be fine. I shall not let you do anything silly.”

Martin made a few more half-hearted protests, but he knew it was a losing battle. Particularly as he really _did_ want to see her again. After their date in Duxford, he hadn't expected much more, and was preparing to just be grateful that he'd been able to spend that time with her. Instead, she had begun to text and call him regularly, and they chatted on Skype almost every day. She was, for some inconceiveable reason, genuinely fond of him, and he could not turn down a chance to see her again.

*

The drive from Delhi to Agra was long and tedious, though at least the car Theresa had sent was air conditioned. Martin had managed to sneak out of the hotel without alerting the rest of MJN, and spent most of the journey alternating between eager anticipation of seeing Theresa and frantic nerves about attending a _royal birthday party_. By the time the car pulled up outside Theresa's hotel, he had worked himself into a ball of anxiety.

Theresa herself was waiting outside the hotel, fanning herself with a magazine and looking a little overheated. As Martin climbed out of the car, she smiled and waved.

“Hello! You are later than I thought. Was the traffic awful?”

“Horrendous,” Martin agreed, grabbing his bag and thanking the driver. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Theresa said again, smiling. For a moment they just looked at each other, then Theresa stepped aside. “It is cooler inside.”

She led the way up to her suite, which had a huge living area as well as the bedroom and bathroom. They sat beside the window, and Theresa poured cool glasses of lemon sharbat as she asked about MJN and how his mother was. Martin's nerves receded as they chatted, reassured that it was just as easy to be with her in India as it had been in Fitton or Duxford. He had almost forgotten about the impending party until Theresa suggested they get ready.

“Come and see your suit,” she said, pulling a large covered coat hanger out from the wardrobe and laying it on the bed. Martin had tried to argue her out of getting him a suit.

“So you have something suitable for the King of Sweden's birthday?” she had asked over Skype, eyebrow raised.

Of course he had no such thing, and so he had subsided, meekly giving her the measurements she asked for. 

She unzipped the cover and pulled it back, revealing one of the nicest suits Martin had ever seen. It was dove grey, simply cut, with a pale blue shirt. It was understated and elegant, and entirely unlike anything Martin had ever worn.

“What do you think?” she asked. “Light colours will be best in this weather, and the blue will bring out your eyes.”

Martin felt himself flush scarlet at this attention. He brushed his fingers over the lapel. “It's lovely,” he said. “Really – Theresa, it's too much, I – I've never had anything like this.”

Theresa just smiled. “I cannot have a poorly dressed man on my arm,” she said simply. 

*

The Taj Mahal had been closed to visitors for the party. Their car was not allowed very close, so they had to walk the last stretch. Martin could scarcely believe what was happening: he was walking, hand-in-hand with a beautiful princess, towards one of the most incredible buildings he had ever seen, in the warm air of an Indian twilight. It had been a surreal enough experience going to Duxford with her, or chatting on Skype with her, but this? This was like a dream.

The Taj Mahal rose ahead of them, its dome glimmering, every bit as beautiful as Martin could have expected. He didn't pay much attention to it, however, because Theresa just looked breathtaking. She had always looked very pretty to him, of course, but she had always dressed rather normally: a blouse and skirt, or the jeans and jacket she had had on at Duxford. Now, though, she was wearing a stunning ,pale blue, backless dress that showed off rather a lot of smooth olive skin. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head, with a few strands framing her face, and a simple, elegant necklace gleamed at her throat. Martin had scarcely been able to take his eyes off her.

They were met at the entrance to the Charbagh Gardens by several intimidating men in suits. Their names were checked against an attendance list, and they were sent through several security points. When Theresa was finally handed her bag, she took Martin's hand and towed him towards where the garden party was laid out.

“Princess Theresa!” came a booming voice. “You have made it! Welcome!”

A tall, richly dressed man with snowy white hair approached them, arms spread wide. He took Theresa's hand and dropped a kiss to the back of it.

“Martin, this is His Royal Highness, King Carl Gustav of Sweden,” Theresa said, squeezing Martin's hand tightly. “Karl, this is Captain Martin Crieff.”

“Very glad to meet you,” said the king, offering his hand. Martin shook it with an awkward half bow.

“A-and you, your- your highness,” he managed to say. “Happy birthday.”

“I thank you, captain,” the king smiled. “I have to say, it is a surprise for Theresa to bring a _date_. Usually it is one of her charming sisters. Congratulations, my dear.” He raised an eyebrow at Theresa.

“Yes, yes, thank you,” she said. “I am sure you will tease me a great deal about it later.”

“Oh, to be sure! Now, you must excuse me. Margrethe has arrived, and I must compliment her on the costumes she designed for the Royal Ballet.”

Martin turned wide eyes on Theresa as the king left them. “Oh God. Was that – okay? Was it awful? It was, wasn't it?”

She laughed and hit him lightly on the arm. “Not awful!” she said. “You were fine. Relax! They are just people.” 

“Alright for you to say, you're one of them.”

“Hm, I am much nicer than most of them.”

“That doesn't really help.”

“No, but at least you know you are here with the right person. You will be just fine, do not fuss.” With that, she led him to where long tables had been laid out, shadowed by large, ornate parasols. Lanterns were strung along the length of the path, and candleabras flickered on the tables. Elegantly dressed men and women were dotted around, talking in groups and sipping drinks. Waiters walked amongst them, carrying trays of glasses and canapes. 

Theresa effortlessly caught two glasses from a passing tray and joined a small group, steering Martin firmly into the circle. She introduced him to their companions, Prince Guillaume of Luxembourg and his wife, Countess Stéphanie of Belgium, and Crown Prince Haakon of Norway. They greeted Theresa like an old friend, and were very polite to Martin, though Prince Haakon looked rather amused at his awkward bowing.

Martin settled for standing quietly and listening as Theresa chatted away. He knew he probably seemed rude, but he had absolutely _no idea_ what to say. He could not join in their conversation anyway, as it was about people he had never met before. Theresa kept her hand firmly tucked into his elbow as she chatted though, which was reassuring.

“It was horrible,” the Countess was saying. “We arrived and the plane was not ready for us, so we had to wait for such a long time, and the heat was awful!”

“It was rather disappointing,” her husband agreed. “But I suppose even honeymoons must have mishaps.”

“I know an airline you could use,” Theresa said, giving Martin a gently nudge. “Martin is captain of an airline that I use. It is very good.”

“Oh?” Countess Stéphanie turned to Martin, smiling. “You are a pilot? That is exciting!”

“I – yes, yes I am, ma'am,” he said, wishing he didn't blush so easily. “For, um, a charter airline.”

“Based in England? Would you take clients from Luxembourg?”

“I – that wouldn't be a – a problem, no. Ma'am.”

“Perhaps we should try this airline, Guillaume,” she said, turning to her husband. “If we wish to fly somewhere but not to use the private planes.”

Well, thought Martin, Carolyn would be pleased if he managed to get her some more business with royalty. The conversation seemed to have been a bit of an icebreaker, and Prince Guillaume questioned Martin about being a pilot, and he managed to answer without tripping over his own tongue too much. However, it was a relief when Theresa steered him away.

“Well done,” she said, amused. “You have managed a conversation. You do not need to bow though, it is fine. Just shake their hands, like you would with someone normal.”

“They're not normal,” Martin pointed out. “They're _royal_.”

“They were _accidentally_ born into a royal line. It is not an achievement, as I keep telling Maxi. They are normal people. Everybody here has to go to the toilet.”

“Theresa!”

“What? You imagine maybe they don't? You may be in for a nasty surprise if you continue to go out with me.”

Martin goggled at her, still unused to her particular brand of honesty, and she laughed. “I am sorry,” she said, and it sounded genuine. “I do not mean to make fun. But really, these are just normal people. They will gossip tonight and get a little drunk and talk about old times. It's just that their experiences are a little... different.”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Okay, I'll try and – I'll try. But it's difficult.”

“I know.” She took his hand, tangling their fingers together. “But you manage with me. That is one of the things I like about you. You treat me as a person, more than a princess.”

“Theresa...” He stopped. They had walked a little way from the party and the lights, and her face was slightly shadowed. He turned to face her, taking her other hand as well. “I'm sorry,” he said helplessly. “I didn't mean – I'm sorry.” 

“Oh, you silly,” she smiled. “You do not need to apologise. You have done nothing wrong. Why do you apologise when I said what I like about you?”

“Habit, I suppose. I don't really know why you – this is all so strange. It doesn't feel real to me.”

“I know. But you do not have to fret so much. You are doing fine. And I am very happy that you are here with me. Honestly, I do not wish to talk to many people here, though I must for politeness. I shall have to speak to a few more people, but then we can go and sit by ourselves.”

“Oh, no, you don't have – I'm not asking you to stay away from everyone just because I'm awkward!”

Theresa waved a hand. “I see many of these people all the time. It does not matter. I asked you to come here because I wished to see _you_.”

Touched, Martin couldn't help but touch her cheek. She smiled, resting her fingers lightly on his hand. She really was absolutely beautiful. He stepped closer to her, his heart pounding in his ears, but just as he was screwing up the courage to kiss her, someone called her name. She stepped away, smiling but looking a little disappointed, and led him back to the party.

Martin did his level best to chat with people, but small talk wasn't exactly a strength of his even when faced with people of his own status. Nobody seemed to mind that he stood quietly whilst they talked, though he did notice that many of the people in attendance seemed to consider Theresa of little importance. Some were even rather brusque with her, bordering on rude, though she took it all in stride.

“I am only a princess of _Liechtenstein_ ,” she said, drawing the word out sarcastically. “They are mostly old bores anyway, I do not worry about it. Oh! I must speak to Kate, come on.”

The next half an hour was entirely surreal to Martin. He was drinking champagne whilst talking to Prince William about military aircraft, whilst Theresa and Kate talked about their sisters. From the glances Theresa threw his way, Martin suspected she would prefer to be talking about the Eurofighter Typhoon.

“I'll try and catch you again later,” William promised as he and Kate were hailed by another party. “Good talking to you.”

“And you,” Martin said faintly, shaking William's hand. When they had left, he turned to Theresa. “Did I … did I just talk to Prince William?”

“You did,” she agreed. “And you sounded normal. Now, I would very much like something better to drink.”

Somewhere, Theresa located some wine, and they wandered from the crowd towards the bank of the reflecting pool. Once there, Theresa sat herself on the grass, seemingly unconcerned by her dress, and patted the ground beside her. Martin sat down too, tilting his head back to look at the sky.

“It's so beautiful here,” he said. “I didn't think the sky would be so clear.”

“They try to keep pollution away,” Theresa said, handing him his wine glass. “That is why we had to walk. I am not looking forward to walking back, my feet are starting to hurt in these shoes.” With that, she pulled her heels off, a grateful sigh escaping her lips. “Goodness, that feels better.”

Martin shook his head, smiling. “You'll ruin your dress on the grass.”

“It'll be fine. If it's stained it'll come out, I'm sure.”

“It's a really lovely dress.”

“You think so?” she eyed him, a smile on her face. “I imagined blue was your favourite colour.”

“You picked that dress for – me?”

“Of course. Who else? Well, for me, of course, but I don't keep dresses I don't look good in.”

“You look amazing,” he told her, daring to reach out and brush over the shoulder strap of the dress. Her skin was warm. “But you looked amazing in jeans.”

“Mm, and _you_ look rather good yourself.”

“You picked the suit.”

“Yes, and it was a good choice. The colours do suit you. I may prefer the uniform though.” She brushed a curl from his forehead. “It is the hat, I think. I like the hat.”

“This outfit is let down by the lack of hat,” he agreed. 

“Not enough gold braid, either.”

“Nowhere near enough.”

“Or medals.” She was grinning.

“Don't tease me,” he protested. Theresa laughed. She was leaning very close now, her hand resting on his chest. He stroked his fingers down her upper arm, and she shivered slightly.

“Theresa-” he said, but before he could say anything else, she had kissed him. It was a soft, gentle kiss, only a brush of her lips against his, but it left him breathless. She pulled back and regarded him, a small smile on her lips.

“Okay?” she murmured.

“Okay. Yes. Very much okay.” 

She smiled, shifting closer, and kissed him again.


End file.
